The months went by quickly enough, as David Linton and his daughter settled down to their work at the Home for Tired People. As the place became more widely known they had rarely an empty room. The boys' regiment sent them many a wearied officer, too fagged in mind and body to enjoy his leave: the hospitals kept up a constant supply of convalescent and maimed patients; and there was a steady stream of Australians of all ranks, who came, homesick for their own land, and found a little corner of it planted in the heart of Surrey. Gradually, as the Lintons realized the full extent of the homesickness of the lads from overseas, Homewood became more and more Australian in details. Pictures from every State appeared on the walls: aboriginal weapons and curiosities, woven grass mats from the natives of Queensland, Australian books and magazines and papers—all were scattered about the house. They filled vases with blue-gum leaves and golden wattle-blossom from the South of France: Norah even discovered a flowering boronia in a Kew nurseryman's greenhouse and carried it off in triumph, to scent the house with the unforgettable delight of its perfume. She never afterwards saw a boronia without recalling the bewilderment of her fellow-travellers in the railway carriage at her exquisitely-scented burden.

"You should have seen their wondering noses, Dad!" said Norah, chuckling.

No one, of course, stayed very long at Homewood, unless he were hopelessly unfit. From ten days to three weeks was the average stay: then, like ships that pass in the night, the "Once-Tireds," drifted away. But very few forgot them. Little notes came from the Fronts, in green Active Service envelopes: postcards from Mediterranean ports; letters from East and West Africa; grateful letters from wives in garrison stations and training camps throughout the British Isles. They accumulated an extraordinary collection of photographs in uniform; and Norah had an autograph book with scrawled signatures, peculiar drawings and an occasional scrap of very bad verse.

Major Hunt, his hand fully recovered, returned to the Front in February, and his wife prepared to seek another home. But the Lintons flatly refused to let her go.

"We couldn't do it," said David Linton. "Doesn't the place agree with the babies?"

"Oh, you know it does," said Mrs. Hunt. "But we have already kept the cottage far too long—there are other people."

"Not for that cottage," Norah said.

"It really isn't fair," protested their guest. "Douglas never dreamed of our staying: if he had not been sent out in such a hurry at the last he would have moved us himself."

David Linton looked at her for a moment.

"Go and play with the babies, Norah," he said. "I want to talk to this obstinate person."

"Now look, Mrs. Hunt," he said, as Norah went off, rather relieved—Norah hated arguments. "You know we run this place for an ideal—a dead man's ideal. He wanted more than anything in the world to help the war; we're merely carrying on for him. We can only do it by helping individuals."

"But you have done that for us. Look at Douglas—strong and fit, with one hand as good as the other. Think of what he was when he came here!"

"He may not always be fit. And if you stay here you ease his worries by benefiting his children—and saving for their future. Then, if he has the bad luck to be wounded again, his house is all ready for him."

"I know," she said. "And I would stay, but that there are others who need it more."

"Well, we haven't heard of them. Look at it another way. I am getting an old man; it worries me a good deal to think that Norah has no woman to mother her. I used to think," he said with a sigh, "that it was worse for them to lose their own mother when they were wee things; now, I am not sure that Norah's loss is not just beginning. It's no small thing for her to have an influence like yours; and Norah loves you."

Mrs. Hunt flushed.

"Indeed, I love her," she said.

"Then stay and mother her. There are ever so many things you can teach her that I can't: that Miss de Lisle can't, good soul as she is. They're not things I can put into words—but you'll understand. I know she's clean and wholesome right through, but you can help to mould her for womanhood. Of course, she left school far too early, but there seemed no help for it. And if—if bad news comes to us from the Front—for any of us—we can all help each other."

Mrs. Hunt thought deeply.

"If you really think I can be of use I will stay," she said. "I'm not going to speak of gratitude—I tried to say all that long ago. But indeed I will do what I can."

"That's all right: I'm very glad," said David Linton.

"And if you really want her taught more," Mrs. Hunt said—"well, I was a governess with fairly high certificates before I was married. She could come to me for literature and French; I was brought up in Paris. Her music, too: she really should practise, with her talent."

"I'd like it above all things," exclaimed Mr. Linton. "Norah's neglected education has been worrying me badly."

"We'll plan it out," Mrs. Hunt said. "Now I feel much happier."

Norah did not need much persuasion; after the first moment of dismay at the idea of renewed lessons she saw the advantages of the plan—helped by the fact that she was always a little afraid of failing to come up to Jim's standard. A fear which would considerably have amazed Jim, had he but guessed it! It was easy enough to fit hours of study into her day. She rose early to practise, before the Tired People were awake; and most mornings saw her reading with Mrs. Hunt or chattering French, while Eva sang shrilly in the kitchen, and the babies slept in their white bunks; and Geoffrey followed Mr. Linton's heels, either on Brecon or afoot. The big Australian squatter and the little English boy had become great friends: there was something in the tiny lad that recalled the Jim of long ago, with his well-knit figure and steady eyes.

One man alone, out of all Tired People, had never left Homewood.

For a time after his arrival Philip Hardress had gained steadily in strength and energy; then a chill had thrown him back, and for months he sagged downwards; never very ill, but always losing vitality. The old depression seemed to come back to him tenfold. He could see nothing good in life: a cripple, a useless cripple. His parents were dead; save for a brother in Salonica, he was alone in the world. He was always courteous, always gentle; but a wall of misery seemed to cut him off from the household.

Then the magnificent physique of the boy asserted itself, and gradually he grew stronger, and the hacking cough left him. Again it became possible to tempt him to try to ride. He spent hours in the keen wintry air, jogging round the fields and lanes with Mr. Linton and Geoffrey, returning with something of the light in his eyes that had encouraged Norah in his first morning, long ago.

"I believe all he wants is to get interested in something," Norah said, watching him, one day, as he sat on the stone wall of the terrace, looking across the park. "He was at Oxford before he joined the Army, wasn't he, Dad?"

Mr. Linton assented. "His people arranged when he was little that he should be a barrister. But he hated the idea. His own wish was to go out to Canada."

Norah pondered.

"Couldn't you give him a job on the farm, Dad?"

"I don't know," said her father. "I never thought of it. I suppose I might find him something to do; Hawkins and I will be busy enough presently."

"He's beginning to worry at being here so long," Norah said. "Of course, we couldn't possibly let him go: he isn't fit for his own society. I think if you could find him some work he would be more content."

So David Linton, after thinking the matter over, took Hardress into his plans for the farm which was to be the main source of supply for Homewood. He found him a quick and intelligent helper. The work was after the boy's own heart: he surrounded himself with agricultural books and treaties on fertilizers, made a study of soils, and took samples of earth from different parts of the farm—to the profound disgust of Hawkins. War had not done away with all expert agricultural science in England: Hardress sent his little packets of soil away, and received them back with advice as to treatment which, later on, resulted in the yield of the land being doubled—which Hawkins attributed solely to his own skill as a cultivator. But the cure was worked in Philip Hardress. The ring of hope came back into his voice: the "shop-leg" dragged ever so little, as he walked across the park daily to where the ploughs were turning the grass of the farm fields into stretches of brown, dotted with white gulls that followed the horses' slow plodding up and down. The other guests took up a good deal of Mr. Linton's time: he was not sorry to have an overseer, since Hawkins, while honest and painstaking, was not afflicted with any undue allowance of brains. Together, in the study at night, they planned out the farm into little crops. Already much of the land was ready for the planting, and a model poultry-run built near the house was stocked with birds; while a flock of sheep grazed in the park, and to the tiny herd of cows had been added half a dozen pure-bred Jerseys. David Linton had taken Hardress with him on the trip to buy the stock, and both had enjoyed it thoroughly.

Meanwhile the boys at the Front sent long and cheery letters almost daily. Astonishment had come to them almost as soon as they rejoined, in finding themselves promoted; they gazed at their second stars in bewilderment which was scarcely lessened by the fact that their friends in the regiment were not at all surprised.

"Why, didn't you have a war on your own account in Ireland?" queried Anstruther. "You got a Boche submarine sunk and caught half the crew, didn't you?"

"Well, but that was only a lark!" said Wally.

"You were wounded, anyhow, young Meadows. Of course we know jolly well you don't deserve anything, but you can't expect the War Office to have our intimate sources of information." He patted Wally on the back painfully. "Just be jolly thankful you get more screw, and don't grumble. No one'll ever teach sense to the War Office!"

There was no lack of occupation in their part of the line. They saw a good deal of fighting, and achieved some reputation as leaders of small raids: Jim, in particular, having a power of seeing and hearing at night that had been developed in long years in the Bush—but which seemed to the Englishmen almost uncanny. There was reason to believe that the enemy felt even more strongly about it—there was seldom rest for the weary Boche in the trenches opposite Jim Linton's section. Some of his raids were authorized: others were not. It is probable that the latter variety was more discouraging to the enemy.

Behind the fighting line they were in fairly comfortable billets. The officers were hardworked: the daily programme of drill and parades was heavy, and in addition there was the task of keeping the men interested and fit: no easy matter in the bitter cold of a North France winter. Jim proved a tower of strength to his company commander, as he had been to his school. He organized football teams, and taught them the Australian game: he appealed to his father for aid, and in prompt response out came cases of boxing-gloves, hockey and lacrosse sets, and footballs enough to keep every man going. Norah sent a special gift—a big case of indoor games for wet weather, with a splendid bagatelle board that made the battalion deeply envied by less fortunate neighbours: until a German shell disobligingly burst just above it, and reduced it to fragments. However, Norah's disgust at the news was so deep that the Tired People in residence at Homewood at the moment conspired together, and supplied the battalion with a new board in her name; and this time it managed to escape destruction.

The battalion had some stiff fighting towards the end of the winter, and earned a pat on the back from high quarters for its work in capturing some enemy trenches. But they lost heavily, especially in officers. Jim's company commander was killed at his side: the boy went out at night into No-Man's Land and brought his body in single-handed, in grim defiance of the Boche machine-guns. Jim had liked Anstruther: it was not to be thought of that his body should be dishonoured by the touch of a Hun. Next day he had a far harder task, for Anstruther had asked him to write to his mother if he failed to come back. Jim bit his pen for two hours over that letter, and in his own mind stigmatized it as "a rotten effort," after it was finished. But the woman to whom it carried whatever of comfort was left in the world for her saw no fault in it. It was worn and frayed with reading when she locked it away with her dead son's letters.

Jim found himself a company commander after that day's fighting—doing captain's work without captain's rank. Wally was his subaltern, an arrangement rather doubted at first by the Colonel, until he saw that the chums played the game strictly, and maintained in working hours a discipline as firm as was their friendship. The men adored them: they knew their officers shirked neither work nor play, and that they knew their own limitations—neither Jim nor Wally ever deluded themselves with the idea that they knew as much as their hard-bitten non-commissioned officers. But they learned their men by heart, knowing each one's nickname and something of his private affairs; losing no opportunity of talking to them and gaining their confidence, and sizing them up, as they talked, just as in old days, as captains of the team, they had learned to size up boys at football. "If I've got to go over the top I want to know what Joe Wilkins and Tiny Judd are doing behind me," said Jim.

They had hoped for leave before the spring offensive, but it was impossible: the battalion was too shorthanded, and the enemy was endeavouring to be the four-times-armed man who "gets his fist in fust." In that early fighting it became necessary to deal with a nest of machine-guns that had got the range of their trenches to a nicety. Shells had failed to find them, and the list of casualties to their discredit mounted daily higher. Jim got the chance. He shook hands with Wally—a vision of miserable disappointment—in the small hours of a starlit night, and led a picked body of his men out of the front trench: making a long detour and finally working nearer and nearer to the spot he had studied through his periscope for hours during the day. Then he planted his men in a shell-hole, and wriggled forward alone.

The men lay waiting, inwardly chafing at being left. Presently their officer came crawling back to them.

"We've got 'em cold," he whispered. "Come along—and don't fire a shot."

It was long after daylight before the German guards in the main trenches suspected anything wrong with that particular nest of machine-guns, and marvelled at its silence. For there was no one left to tell them anything—of the fierce, silent onslaught from the rear; of men who dropped as it were from the clouds and fought with clubbed rifles, led by a boy who seemed in the starlight as tall as a young pine-tree. The gun-crews were sleeping, and most of them never woke again: the guards, drowsy in the quiet stillness, heard nothing until that swift, wordless avalanche was upon them.

In the British trench there was impatience and anxiety. The men waiting to go forward, if necessary, to support the raiders, crouched at the fire-step, muttering. Wally, sick with suspense, peered forward beside the Colonel, who had come in person to see the result of the raid.

"I believe they've missed their way altogether," muttered the Colonel angrily. "There should hove been shots long ago. It isn't like Linton. Dawn will be here soon, and the whole lot will be scuppered." He wheeled at a sudden commotion beyond him in the trench. "Silence there! What's that?"

"That" was Jim Linton and his warriors, very muddy, but otherwise undamaged. They dropped into the trench quietly, those who came first turning to receive heavy objects from those yet on top. Last of all Jim hopped down.

"Hullo, Wal!" he whispered. "Got 'em."

"Got 'em!" said the Colonel sternly. "What? Where have you been, sir?"

"I beg your pardon, sir—I didn't know you were there," Jim said, rather horrified. It is not given to every subaltern to call his commanding officer "Wal," when that is not his name. "I have the guns, sir."

"You have—what?"

"The Boche—I mean, the enemy, machine-guns. We brought them back, sir."

"You brought them back!" The Colonel leaned against the wall of the trench and began to laugh helplessly. "And your men?"

"All here, sir. We brought the ammunition, too," said Jim mildly.
"It seemed a pity to waste it!"

Which things, being told in high places, brought Jim a mention in despatches, and, shortly afterwards, confirmation of his acting rank. It would be difficult to find fitting words to tell of the effect of this matter upon a certain grizzled gentleman and a very young lady who, when the information reached them were studying patent manures in a morning-room in a house in Surrey.

"He's—why," gasped Norah incredulously—"he's actually Captain
Linton!"

"I suppose he is," said her father. "Doesn't it sound ridiculous!"

"I don't think it's ridiculous at all," said Norah warmly. "He deserved it. I think it sounds simply beautiful!"

"Do you know," said her father, somewhat embarrassed—"I really believe I agree with you!" He laughed. "Captain Linton!"

"Captain Linton!" reiterated Norah. "Our old Jimmy!" She swept the table clear. "Oh, Daddy, bother the fertilizers for to-night—I'm going to write to Billabong!"

"But it isn't mail-day to-morrow," protested her father mildly.

"No," said Norah. "But I'll explode if I don't tell Brownie!"

"And will the Captain be coming 'ome soon, Miss Norah?" inquired Allenby, a little later. The household had waxed ecstatic over the news.

"The Captain?" Norah echoed. "Oh, how nice of you, Allenby! It does sound jolly!"

"Miss de Lisle wishes to know, miss. The news 'as induced 'er to invent a special cake."

"We'll have to send it to the poor Captain, I'm afraid," said Norah, dimpling. "Dear me, I haven't told Mrs. Hunt! I must fly!" She dropped her pen, and fled to the cottage—to find her father there before her.

"I might have known you couldn't wait to tell," said Norah, laughing.
"And he pretends he isn't proud, Mrs. Hunt!"

"I've given up even pretending," said her father, laughing. "I found myself shaking hands with Allenby in the most affectionate manner. You see, Mrs. Hunt, this sort of thing hasn't happened in the family before."

"Oh, but those boys couldn't help doing well," Mrs. Hunt said, looking almost as pleased as the two beaming faces before her. "They're so keen. I don't know if I should, but shall I read you what Douglas says about them?" They gathered eagerly together over the curt words of praise Major Hunt had written. "Quite ordinary boys, and not a bit brainy," he finished. "But I wish I had a regiment full of them!"

Out in Australia, two months later, a huge old woman and a lean
Irishman talked over the letter Norah had at length managed to finish.

"And it's a Captin he is!" said Murty O'Toole, head stockman.

"A Captain!" Brownie echoed. "Don't it seem only yesterday he was tearing about in his first little trousis, and the little mistress watching him!"

"And riding his first pony. She put him over her head, and I med sure he was kilt. 'Howld her, will ye, Murty,' says he, stamping his little fut, and blood trickling down his face. 'Give me a leg up again,' he says, 'till we see who's boss!' And I put him up, and off he went down the paddock, digging his little heels into her. And he's a Captin! Little Masther Jim!"

"I don't know why you're surprised," said Brownie loftily. "The only wonder to me is he wasn't one six months ago!"